


maraschino breakfast

by okayantigone



Series: in nakano's blooming duckweeds [2]
Category: Hunter X Hunter, Naruto
Genre: Body Horror, Character Study, FULL AU for Naruto, Gen, Gore, Implied Cannibalism, Itachi has pretty much become a full time troll, M/M, Yorknew Auction Arc, a retired assassin needs hobbies, implied past hidan/itachi, implied suicidal ideation, itachi but he fucks, lots of dark jokes, not super detailed but it's there, schadenfreude humor, semi-canon compliant for hxh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-15 07:38:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17524571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okayantigone/pseuds/okayantigone
Summary: "you know who's staying on this floor, don't you?" basho snaps, a shudder working its way up his broad spine. the other guards turn to him, carefully neutral."who?" kurapika asks, with all the impatience of trauma and youth."uchiha itachi. then clan killer."kurapika casts his gaze to the heavy mahogany door leading out into a hallway. there was a man who had lived through his worst nightmare... who had caused it, and walked away. he could not forgive it.-"sir," melody says, not unkindly, "your resting heartbeat registers as a panic attack."





	maraschino breakfast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crownsandbirds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownsandbirds/gifts).



> this can be read as following the same premise of "the dream where we pulled the bodies out of the lake", in that the truth of the massacre has been revealed and itachi is restored as a citizen and semi-active shinobi of konoha. 
> 
> this story is a gift for my dear son jean, because itachi isn't done being confronted with traumatized red-eyed orphans of extinguished clans. except this time he didn't even do it!

maraschino red

 

there were stories the hyuga used to tell. when a child would stay out the compound gates past dark, when beds were left unmade, breakfasts uneaten, vegetables surreptitiously tossed in the garbage, the hyugas liked to tell the stories. not all of them, mind, but the grandmothers for sure.

 

_be good, or the uchiha will come for your eyes._

_they will steal into your room, and see your unmade bed, drag you from the rumpled covers, or else snatch you from beyond the clan compound gates, and you’ll be too weak to fight them off. and when they get you, they’ll pluck your eyes right out of your head, and_ eat _them. because that’s what they_ do. _it’s how they keep young, it’s why their eyes are red, because they are full of the blood of their victims._

 

it was all stories, of course. the uchiha had no interest in unruly hyuga children, and certainly could have cared less for hyuga eyeballs, as a snack, or otherwise. and then the uchiha all disappeared, and there was only two survivors left, and it’s not so much the stories stopped, as they changed.

 

_be good, or itachi uchiha will come for your eyes._

that’s what the grandmothers said. and the grandfathers, preoccupied with precarious konoha council business, had another tale.

 

_be good to your sons, or they will come for our eyes._

and then there were no uchiha left in the village, and for a while the stories stopped.

 

itachi did not take pride in having become ersatz superstition, though he could not strictly blame it on anyone but himself. a quiet blind man followed by crowing corvids would have been an omen of death even without his dark reputation, though certainly, as he was getting ahead in years, it was becoming more of a benefit to rely on his name to do the work for him.

 

he could still kill. that knowledge had been carved into his bones. his body was finely attuned to the music of murder, even with his fragile heart and decaying lungs. but there too, was a part of him, and it was not a small part either, that relished now in the opportunities that presented themselves, for the luxury of avoiding a fight, of declining to engage. it was a lascivious experience, to be able to sprawl into the comfort of a time barren of violence. he had earned it.

 

he was always cautious of those words. of saying he’d earned something, even admitting it in the private recess of his mind. a day would come, eventually, where he’d use these words to justify something unforgiveable, and he could not have that. who would dare stand up to him, if that time came? konoha elders, too conscientious of appearances, of causing _offense,_ of implying _presumption?_ sasuke, so preoccupied with his guilt?

 

he had earned some things, but he had to draw his own line. that was fine too. he had grown with restriction, wartime starved, and then wartime unloved. he’d always excelled, merely because there was no other choice, no other path, _but_ to excel. now the war was over. not all the wars, but the big one, the one, upon whose pyres he had sacrificed his childhood and youth. he did not starve anymore, and he slept in down-stuffed beds, woke when the sun was high in the sky, and still marveled at the weight of a full sugar bowl, and three full meals each day. _those_ were things he had earned. he’d know when it was time to stop. he’d know when it was _plenty_ though he’d never seen _plenty_ in his life. he couldn’t have, before. and he coldn’t see anything now.

 

therein, lay the crux of the problem. konoha was a hope he’d been anxious to return to, but it was a treacherous home, full of grandmother’s stories, the leaves cast dark shadows, and rustled with the whispers of what he’d done. first within the village walls, then outside, after he left. some of the stories were true.

 

he is not so much eager to revisit them, as overcome with a depth of nostalgia. it had not been all bad, his exile, not all of it woeful and filled with too much pain. in flashes, there had been times that left him warmed to his core, like a burning sip of plum wine, sweet at once and cutting. the road too, had become a home with the time he spent there.

 

now the city of yorknew sprawled before him, and though he could not see it, he could sense it, tendrils of auras in the air, pulsating around him, like an ant hill full of little, insignificant lives.

 

sasuke had offered to come with him. pleaded even, and itachi had been firm to decline. though his brother new some of the stories, the true ones anyway, itachi was in no rush to drag him again into a world he’d only half-left to take up the mantle of state in konoha and play diplomat on a round table full of those who hated, feared, and coveted him in equal measure.

 

the little sojourn by airship had been a welcome reprieve, and tsunade had sent him to the auction with the full backing of konoha’s coffers, and a laundry list of items to secure, from medical ingredients to proofs of death, and the strict instruction that, should orochimaru, or known associates of his, be present also, he was to outbid them for every item.

 

his mission of course, was only a polite way of hers to extend tacit blessing for his real purpose.

 

he lifted the cherry out of the pleasantly heavy glass jar and rolled it between his fingers, feeling the soft texture. carefully, he pushed it between his lips, and savored the syrup of sugar drowned liquor. he could recall with crystal clarity the true color of the fruit, a bright, blazing red. maybe it was the curse of an uchiha, to be always so attracted to things of their same color – red cherries, black berries, red sunset skies, black birds, fires and funeral shrouds.

 

he let his teeth slice through the tender flesh, ripping it apart, the porcelain working smoothly to grind the bits into smaller, sweeter to swallow pieces. few things had the texture of fresh eyeballs. the cherries did, owing to their careful margination in the expensive alcohol, and the sweetener. he plucked another one out, and again, focused on envisioning it, as it came to a precarious stop between his lips. bright cherry red, perfectly spherical iris around an averagely sized pin-head black pupil, the sclera a delicate milky white.

 

he clamped his beautifully commissioned teeth down, chewing delicately. red eyes. it really was a curse, for those who had them. and it was a curse he had come here to buy.

 

by the time one of the airship attendants had come into his private compartment, his head was already pulsing with the force of yorknew below them.

 

“uchiha-san,” she spoke uncertainly. she had a high voice, full of air. “we will be touching down shortly.”

 

he could hear the rustle of her ill-fitting uniform as she bowed, and regarded her passively, with a close-lipped smile. his lips must have been stained red, as his teeth.

 

he walked out of the aircraft slowly, feeling the warm breeze on his skin. it set the heavy ornaments in his hair to a delicate chime. he reached forward with his cane carefully feeling the way ahead, working forward in graceful steps, his geta clicking a delicate rhythm against the ground. the car he had ordered was waiting, its engine rumbling warmly, like a great, pleased cat. he could just picture the sleek black metal, glinting under the sun that warmed his face.

 

he rose the partition between himself and the driver, and turned his face to the window. his mind’s eye supplied a map of the roads around the city. he could picture each turn they were taking, en route to the hotel.


End file.
